Anyone Who Had a Heart (35 page)

Though his father might and Carla must know Roberto. They frequent the same world of exotic dancers and smoke-filled nightclubs
.

She stepped over the old coconut matting worn flat by thousands of feet over very many years.

The old woman who ran the shop had been there since the days when Stanley Baldwin had been prime minister and Edward VIII had been King for a year before popping off to marry his American divorcée.

Miriam Coffee claimed to know everyone for miles around. She was a small woman with dyed black hair and a pinched face. Her lipstick was always red and her eye shadow bright blue or aquamarine. She only wore glasses for checking her price lists. Everyone else she scrutinised with beady black eyes that didn’t miss a trick. New faces were treated with curiosity and subject to being asked where they lived, where they worked and what they were doing in the area.

Marcie had been no exception and had replied that she was a widow, had just moved in over the road, sewed undergarments for a living and was settling in very nicely thank you.

Her forthright answers had made a friend of Miriam Coffee.

‘Smarties!’ Miriam exclaimed, shaking a tube in front of Joanna for her to take.

Joanna laughed as she gripped the tube with her plump little fingers.

Miriam’s bright red lips stretched over her uneven teeth. A gold tooth flashed at the corner of her mouth.

Marcie wasn’t completely severed from concern about the black limousine. All and sundry had crossed the worn coconut matting. Miriam knew from experience when something wasn’t quite right.

‘You alright, my love?’ she asked.

‘That black car that just pulled away – did they come in here?’

Miriam’s sharp black eyes that were usually as beady as a curious rat, lit up.

‘That’s what I was going to tell you. I’ve seen that car a few times. It does the same thing every time – parks outside my shop. The nerve of it! Nobody ever gets out and comes in, so I went out to them. Bloody cheek! That’s my piece of parking there. My piece of pavement!’

There was no point whatsoever in pointing out to Miriam that the local council owned the pavement and not just the bit in front of her shop. They owned the whole lot. But Miriam didn’t see things that way. Every morning she put out her tin signs for Lyons Maid ice cream and Old Holborn tobacco. The signs took up half the pavement, but no one dared protest. Even the council had respect for a resident who had been here long before the Blitz and long before the local council representatives had been born.

‘So I went out to them and asked them what they were up to. They could have been casing the joint,’ she whispered in a conspiratorial manner, leaning across the counter. ‘Cigarettes! That’s what the thieves around here go after.’

Marcie didn’t doubt that cigarettes were in high demand, though not by people who could afford a shiny black limousine.

‘But they didn’t want cigarettes. They wanted in-for-mat-ion!’

Miriam said the last word like a drum roll. ‘They wanted to know about you.’

Marcie’s insides felt as though she’d swallowed a whole ice lolly. ‘What did they want to know?’

‘That’s what worried me,’ said Miriam. Her smile was gone. Jet-black eyebrows beetled over jet-black eyes. ‘They asked me about the child and how often you took her out and whether the child was well treated. They seemed to know it was a girl and was named Joanna. I’m glad you called in. If you hadn’t I would have come over to tell you. Do you think they’re something to do with the child’s father?’

Miriam’s face was a picture of worry and reflected Marcie’s own feelings.

Marcie shook her head. ‘Was it a man in the car?’

Her question brought a swift nod from the little woman behind the counter.

‘Definitely a lady. And I mean a lady. She had money written all over her.’

If the situation hadn’t been so worrying, Marcie would have chortled and commented that the woman in the flash leopard-skin coat was no lady – especially when she opened her mouth.

Miriam sighed and leaned across her worn countertop, her bony fingers flashing red nail polish clasped in front of her.

‘A lady doesn’t just dress well; it’s the way they speak. Ever so nicely and not dropping their aitches.’

Why was Carla asking so many questions? She frowned. It just didn’t make sense. None of this made sense. Carla was a business associate and although she had a high-handed manner she’d seemed quite happy for their business relationship to continue. So what was this all about?

‘That woman drops more than her aitches,’ Marcie exclaimed, no long able to hold back her mirth. ‘She swears like a trooper, though I think she can put it on when she has to.’

Miriam seemed quite hurt by Marcie’s condemnation of her appraisal. ‘I’m telling you, she spoke ever so nicely – just like Celia Johnson. If she wasn’t the real thing, then she must have been on the stage. I know how a lady speaks – believe me. I’ve had some of the most ladylike in the land in this shop.’

Marcie accepted it was likely that Carla might
have
done a bit of acting in her time – one way or another. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

She didn’t like to say that the stage Carla had likely been on was in a smoky nightclub where she was taking off her clothes. Elocution didn’t come into it!

THE SWAN DANCER
was Victor Camilleri’s favourite nightclub and the most upmarket. The girls dancing on the stage were dressed as pink swans – if you can call a few strategically placed sequins and dyed pink ostrich feathers adorning their heads and their gloriously exposed buttocks being dressed.

People with money and power came to this club; men who were makers and shakers in the twin worlds of making money and politics. The two, he’d found in his experience, went together; as did their need to let their hair down when the opportunity presented itself. That’s why so many frequented the Swan Dancer. Victor was on first-name terms with most of them and welcomed them with a slap on the back, a knowing nod or a handshake smothered in cigar smoke.

He enjoyed meeting these men and, even more so, he enjoyed being privy to their bad behaviour. They were unknowingly furnishing him with material he could make money from. They already gave him tips for the stock market and funds where he could make a fast buck. And he gave them girls,
fresh
young girls who would do most things for money. Powerful men had powerful urges. He knew that himself.

Allegra was dressed in a low-cut red dress with cutaway arms that exposed her creamy shoulders.

Victor Camilleri bent his head and kissed the one nearest him.

‘That man over there,’ he whispered, his free hand holding aloft a smoking King Edward so the smoke wouldn’t fall over Allegra’s face. ‘He’s in line to become a government minister. Guess what ministry he’s hoping to get.’

Holding a glass of champagne in front of her face and wearing a serene smile, Allegra shook her head. ‘No. I don’t know. But no doubt you’re going to tell me.’

His hand went from her shoulder to her knee. ‘Minister of Education. That man wants to be responsible for the education of school children and young people at university. Is that not a joke?’

Allegra kept her eyes fixed on the corpulent man with the red face and sweaty complexion. He was at least sixty years old. His mistress was eighteen years old and set up in a flat in Pimlico. She was thin and childlike with urchin eyes and straight fair hair.

‘His idea of education covers a broad canvas,’ Allegra said casually, as though she were hardened
to
the predicament of other people. It wasn’t true, but she’d got used to pretending.

Unlike the other girls set up with rich old men, she had not met Victor through the sewing room and Daisy Chain. Both the Camilleri and Montillado family attended mass at the Church of the Holy Trinity in Bethnal Green. That’s where Victor had first seen the beautiful young girl who had once had it in mind to become a nun. Victor saved her from that – to his way of thinking. He had gone out of his way to seduce her. Unfortunately someone else got there first.

‘Father Bernard,’ she’d said in the midst of a tempestuous argument with her parents. They had still been keen for her to become a nun and, seeing as the child had been adopted, they could see no barrier to her doing so. But Allegra had changed her mind. At Pilemarsh she’d met other girls of her age. She’d felt free but regretful that she’d given away her child. She also swore that she would never set foot in a church again.

The fact that the conception of her child had involved a young priest changed everything. Her relationship with her parents became strained, with her father in particular. He threw her out. It was difficult for a girl used to a lavish lifestyle and plenty of money. Despairingly she’d tried to make it up with her parents, but whilst her mother wanted to forgive
her
, her father was resolute. He considered they’d done enough merely by taking her to the home for unmarried mothers and arranging the adoption of her child – their grandchild.

It was Victor who had rescued her. He’d lavished affection on her and listened when she explained how she felt about the Church, about the child she had given away and the priest who had caused her predicament.

He did everything he could to make things up with her parents, but they’d remained unmoved. Drowning in despair, she’d cut her wrists. It was Victor who had saved her from herself. He gave her an option – the only option she had. She became his mistress and began to realise something very amazing indeed. She’d grown to love him and that in itself was a miracle.

She thought of this now and her eyes began to water.

‘You OK?’ Victor asked.

She blamed the smoke. ‘I’m also a little tired.’

His hand slid from her knee to her thigh. ‘Tired? Come on, darling, I haven’t been round that much just lately.’

‘Perhaps that’s the reason,’ she said with a generous smile. If there was one thing she’d learned early on in life it was how to massage a man’s ego. Make him feel that she couldn’t function without him; that she
was
at her happiest when he was making love to her. And, of course, there was no one who could do it like he could, at least, that was the picture she painted.

Victor’s attention and his plume of cigar smoke switched to his son, who was making his way through the crush of small, round tables.

Allegra gave him a nod of welcome in response to the one he gave her. Father and son embraced.

‘A man should always have a son to carry on his name,’ Victor trumpeted. ‘My son is a fine figure of a man, yes?’

People sat at tables close by overheard and gave their approval in shouts of yes and the clapping of hands.

Allegra watched cold eyed and chilled to the bone. She was reminded of a stage actor taking his encores with easy disdain – as if Roberto deserved such acclaim.

All the same, she was frightened of him. Her jaw tightened at the thought of him. Like father, like son. The two men were both arrogant and easily offended. They were also devious and vicious in their revenge. This father/son relationship could so easily disintegrate if the father knew that his son had tried to seduce her. But Allegra would never tell him that; strange as it might seem to an outsider, she loved Victor. Their relationship suited her fine.

She sipped delicately at the very good champagne Victor kept at this club alone, listening to what was being said with increasing alarm.

‘Brooksy is such a prat at times. He crowed to me about this little business of hers. Do you know what she’s doing?’

Victor laughed when his son told him that Marcie had a business making theatrical costumes. ‘So you want this girl back?’

Roberto’s face darkened. ‘She can’t just run out on me like that. She needs to know that.’

Allegra was panic stricken. She had to phone Marcie and tell her to get out of there. There was a payphone out in the hallway by the entrance where people phoned for taxis. She had to get to it. The cloakrooms were there too.

‘We’re leaving,’ said Victor, cupping her arm and rising so that she had to rise too.

‘I need the ladies’ …’

Victor frowned. ‘Well get on with it. Fast.’

She headed in the general direction of the ladies’ cloakroom but did a slight detour to the two telephone kiosks situated immediately opposite the doorman’s desk.

Fingers became all thumbs. Her hands shook as she attempted to get her purse from out of her red patent clutch bag. Her heart was racing. Pennies fell to the floor. A helpful hand reached into the cubicle
and
picked them up. She found herself looking into Victor’s angry countenance.

‘This ain’t the ladies’ cloakroom,’ he growled. ‘What the hell do you think you’re up to?’

Tony Brooks was drunk as a skunk and lying flat on his back. It wasn’t just the booze that had laid him low. Roberto Camilleri had been round to have a little word and had brought that animal, Malcolm, with him. At Roberto’s command the Black Bull had buried his fist in Tony’s gut. Malcolm’s closed fist was roughly the size of a small anvil and just as hard. Tony went down. Malcolm stood over him while Roberto poured a bowl of porridge onto his face. Luckily for Tony it had cooled.

‘That’s for nicking the old man’s car without permission.’

‘Just the porridge?’ Tony knew he was much too glib for his own good, but he couldn’t help it. He felt he’d had grounds for borrowing the car.

On Roberto’s say so, Malcolm thudded into Tony’s ribs.

‘You nicked my old man’s motor, you nonce. He wants an apology.’

Although his gut felt as though it had exploded into his lungs, Tony shook his head. ‘I don’t owe him any apology. He’s got it all wrong.’

‘You’ve been pocketing the rent. Ain’t that right?’

He’d been angry that Ella had scooted. The money had fuelled a booze-filled night and two whores who worked for Victor. It was them who’d reported him.

Malcolm lifted his foot. Tony winced at the thought of his right ribs being rearranged to match his left.

‘You can’t do this, Roberto. After all, ain’t we going to be related? My Marcie … and Michael?’